


Beautiful and Terrible

by elisetales



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Awkwardness, First Time, Frottage, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 20:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/739958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisetales/pseuds/elisetales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ethos finds himself drawn to Deimos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful and Terrible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_nerd_word](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_nerd_word/gifts).



> I hope this is okay and close enough to what you asked for, NW! You're the best. ♥♥♥

Ethos kept his head bent, pushing his food around his bowl while Abel and his fighter, Cain, erupted into their second argument of the morning—this time over who'd been first to hit the shower and use up all the hot water in the process.

"And we wouldn't have been too late for hot coffee either if you'd just gotten out of the shower when I asked you to," Abel was saying now, primly.

"You wanted me to get out after two minutes!" came Cain's indignant reply.

"Well I'm sorry we don't have all the time in the world for you to pamper yourself, Cain; some of us have schedules to adhere to. Two minutes is more than enough time to get all the important parts clean, and—"

"Heh, well you don't seem to mind the pampering so much when you're in there getting pampered _with_ me, eh, princess?" Cain interrupted, sly and snickering.

Ethos choked a little on his oatmeal, quickly tried to conceal it by gulping down the remainder of his still-scalding tea. He was blushing to the roots of his hair now, could feel his face throbbing with heat; but he kept his eyes downcast and fixed to his bowl, didn't want to look up and let Abel know he'd heard what Cain had said, didn't want to embarrass him, even though Abel was probably aware Ethos had heard it all.

It wasn't the first time Cain had said something to a similar effect, and at this point it was obvious to anyone with eyes that there was something less-than-professional going on between Abel and his fighter.

Ethos wasn't interested in confronting Abel about it: it was none of Ethos' business, even if he worried for Abel constantly—couldn't help recalling the day Abel had looked like he wanted to tell him something, had confessed to him that it was easier to help Ethos with _his_ problems than it was to confront his own. There was a part of him that felt uneasy, too, whenever he thought about Cain with his rough, mean hands on his friend; hurting him, trying to break him. 

But, Ethos thought glumly, it'd be nice not to have to be confronted with Abel and Cain's unconventional relationship every time they sat down to eat. Perhaps it'd be worth it to quietly advise Abel to tone it down with Cain, at least in public? The last thing Ethos wanted was for Abel to get into trouble over this, and it was the last thing Ethos wanted for him, either.

He'd considered simply abandoning this little ritual of sitting with Abel and his fighter during mealtimes, of ridding himself of the responsibility of having to deal with the awkwardness of it altogether, but he couldn't bear to hurt Abel's feelings or lose him as a friend, and besides: if he sat somewhere else it'd mean not seeing Deimos anymore, and Ethos didn't like the thought of that.

He chanced a quick glance up at Cain and Abel (they appeared to have made it up during Ethos' brief bout of mortification and were murmuring between themselves, fixating on Cain's tablet, Abel leaning his chin on Cain's shoulder while Cain casually leaned back into him) and, relieved they weren't paying him any mind, he turned to Deimos as he thought of him.

Deimos looked as calm and collected as always, clean and neat and untouchable, not a single wrinkle in his uniform or a hair out of place; his small, slender fingers wrapped around a mug of spiced tea—he, like Ethos, wouldn't drink the coffee either—while he stared down at his own tablet, oblivious to the goings on around him.

Only he wasn't really. Deimos paid attention to everything that went on at their table—that much had been made obvious the first time they'd ever sat together and he'd lost his patience with Cain and Abel's squabbling and flirting.

His feelings were often subtler, though; obvious in the slight shift of his posture when Cain and Abel were arguing or worse, being overtly obvious with one another—touching, or openly flirting, or looking at each other like they couldn't wait for the second they were alone again.

Deimos was just good at pretending he didn't notice, or pretending he didn't give a damn when Ethos was almost certain he did; and Ethos envied him for that insurmountably. Deimos didn't blush fire-engine red like Ethos did—his skin was pretty and smooth, but a few shades darker than Ethos', not as startlingly white—and he was good at staying still, good at being quiet, good at everything Ethos wished he could be good at too.

Ethos slid closer to him on the bench, peering over him at his tablet, trying not to be too intrusive about it. "What are you looking at?" he inquired. Deimos didn't answer him though Ethos wasn't surprised, or offended: over the past few weeks he'd gathered that Deimos didn't speak because he couldn't, and Ethos had found it hadn't hindered them becoming friendly with one another.

Over time Deimos had appeared to warm up to him; sometimes he'd offer Ethos small smiles, or exchange a fleeting look of understanding with him while Cain and Abel were being ridiculous and fighting again, as if to say he knew exactly what Ethos was thinking and felt the same way about it.

And although he didn't say anything now, Deimos set his tablet back down on the table and neatly folded his hands, looked at Ethos as if to let him know he wasn't being ignored. Ethos smiled at him then and fingered the little box inside his pocket. "Have you got a minute to talk?" he asked.

Deimos nodded and Ethos retrieved the small wooden box from his pocket, unfastening the little clasp and opening the lid, pushing it across the table to Deimos, who inspected the contents for a few moments without touching, a small crease appearing between his brows, as though he was confused.

"They're the crystals I was telling you about," Ethos explained, slightly flustered now and hoping he hadn't made a mistake in thinking Deimos would be interested by this, sliding closer still until he could feel Deimos' warmth pressed to his side.

"Here," he murmured, picking up the first crytal and holding it up to the light. "This one's called celestine. There was a whole cave full of it where I grew up, back on Earth. My Dad and I..." Ethos trailed off, breath hitching and pulse quickening when Deimos' cool fingers closed around his.

Ethos was sure he was bright red again now, just hoped Deimos wouldn't notice. He let go of the crystal and let Deimos take it, examine it, a small smile quirking the fighter's lips as he traced the jagged ridges with the tip of a finger, curling his hand into a fist and holding it tight in his palm.

"Do you like it?" Ethos asked, slightly breathless. He wanted Deimos to like it, almost as much as he wanted Deimos to like _him_. "I wanted you to—"

"Ptthh, are you trying to get him into bed or put him to sleep?" Cain interrupted with a loud snort. Ethos glanced up at him, blushing furiously.

"Wh-what?" he stammered, nervous whenever Cain addressed him directly, terrified of him and his roughness and cruel smiles.

Cain jerked his head at Deimos, a slow smirk on his face, ignoring Abel's warning glare. "If you're trying to fuck him, kid, you're taking the long route. You don't need to give him any fancy boring rocks, just get your hands on a couple bottles of contraband and he's all yours."

"Cain!" Abel slapped Cain's forearm, looking positively horrified, while Cain just laughed and said, "What? I'm just trying to help the kid get laid! Come on, princess, you—"

But Ethos couldn't hear the rest of it, his pulse pounding too loudly in his ears, so humiliated he wanted to sink right into the floor and disappear. He flicked a quick glance at Deimos, whose lips were pressed tightly together, disapproving and silent but glaring straight at Cain, and pushed himself up from the table. "I should go," he forced out.

"Oh, Ethos, no. Don't," Abel begged, sounding devastated, hand still gripping Cain's arm as Ethos started to walk away. "Ugh, _Cain_! Say something!"

Ethos ignored them, kept walking anyway, because Abel was a good friend, had always been a good friend, but he didn't have a hope in hell of understanding this, not when he was so wrapped up in Cain that he hadn't noticed the way Ethos had been looking at Deimos for weeks, hadn't asked him about it even once.

He didn't have a clue that Deimos was all Ethos thought about whenever he wasn't thinking about home, or how to make things right with Praxis; and it was all over now before Ethos had even had a shot at it. All because of Abel's stupid fighter and his big, stupid mouth.

It wasn't until Ethos reached the door to his room that he realized he'd been followed. "Deimos," he blurted, at once recognizing the smaller shadow cast against the reflective door.

He turned around and looked down at the small fighter, swallowing his nerves and clearing his throat. "Hi, uh... What are you doing here?"

Deimos shrugged and glanced down at the box in Ethos' hand. "Oh," Ethos said quickly, holding it out to him, nervously scratching the back of his head. "I'm sorry I left so quickly, I just..." He cleared his throat again. "I'm sorry. Anyway, I wanted you to have this, so, um. Keep it. Please."

Deimos stared down at the box for what felt like forever before he pocketed it and looked up at Ethos with an odd expression, halfway between appraisal and a frown. He startled him then by bunching a hand in his white uniform jacket and yanking him down, tilting his own head up and letting his pretty eyes flutter closed.

It was already happening by the time Ethos even realized what Deimos had meant to do, his lips still slightly parted and pressed awkwardly to Deimos', unmoving and frozen.

He didn't know what to think or feel, or even remember how to _breathe_ let alone how to work his lips. Deimos was so beautiful and unfamiliar, warm and pressed right up against him, smelling so sweet and clean—like soap and laundry detergent, shampoo and spiced tea. Ethos couldn't begin to fathom what he'd done to earn this, or even whether or not it was a trick—something nasty that Cain had devised, something designed to humiliate him even more.

Deimos was persistent, though; twisted his hand in Ethos' hair, curled it round his fingers and stood on tiptoe to kiss him harder, swiping his lower lip with his tongue, urging him down and closer to him. When Ethos placed his trembling hands on Deimos' shoulders and gently pushed him back, Deimos shrank away, stared up at him with big grey eyes. He touched his fingers to his lips and looked contrite, like he expected to be scolded for giving Ethos a kiss, like _he_ was the one who'd received something he didn't deserve.

"I'm sorry," Ethos choked out. "I-I've never done this before is all," he confessed. "I mean—k-kissed. Or anything. I've never done anything like this; I'm so sorry, I'm..." He pressed the heels of his hands to his face and cringed, mortified that he'd let so much slip, that he'd just up and told Deimos he was a nineteen year-old virgin who'd never been kissed. Not once. Only by his mother and only then on his birthdays.

He was pathetic, and embarrassing, and he'd just blown his one chance with Deimos, someone whom Ethos had never considered in a million years would ever be interested in someone like him: someone so young and inexperienced and awkward, who couldn't even get his own fighter to talk to him and who was the lowest-ranked navigator on the ship because of it.

He jumped a little when he felt Deimos' cool hands on his, had half-expected him to up and leave then, turned cold with the knowledge he'd kissed someone who was such a loser they'd never even done it before; but he was still standing there, warm and solid, his fingers wrapping themselves around Ethos' wrists and dragging his hands away from his face.

Deimos replaced them with his own, reaching up and cupping Ethos' face, brushing the hair out of his eyes, so sweet and gentle it caused the tight knot of embarrassment at the pit of Ethos' stomach to loosen somewhat.

" _Vy ne sdelali etogo ran'she? Ty tak sladko._ "

Ethos had learned enough basic Russian in his last two years of high school to understand that Deimos had just uttered the words "you" and "sweet." His unfamiliar voice as he formed the words was like nothing Ethos had ever heard, though—raspy and raw and rough, as if someone had tried to rip it right out of him, shredded it with broken glass. It was beautiful and terrible all at the same time.

The faintest rosy blush stained Deimos' cheeks now, the first blush Ethos had ever seen on him, and he wanted so badly to touch it, to touch _him_ , to feel the thrum of heat beneath his skin; so much that it was impossible to resist. He lifted a hand and traced Deimos' cheek with his fingertips, letting his touch linger, dragging it down to Deimos' mouth and brushing his soft lips with the pad of his thumb.

Deimos closed his lips around it and sucked, wet tongue swirling over the tip of Ethos' thumb, eyes dark and hooded and making it impossible for Ethos not to think about those lips wrapped around something else...

He was forced to swallow hard to keep from letting out an embarrassing noise, even if he was sure Deimos knew what he was thinking, had sucked his finger like that on purpose _just_ to make him think it.

Deimos let Ethos' thumb slip from his mouth and gestured for him to key them inside the room. When Ethos did, Deimos took his hands instead, lead them both over to the bed and pushed Ethos down onto the bottom bunk with surprising strength, climbing on top of him once Ethos fell back against the mattress with a thud, bumping his head against the bulkhead at the same time.

This time when Deimos leaned down to kiss him Ethos was ready for him, ready to be brave, brushing Deimos' hair back and cupping his face, returning his kiss with all the skill he'd learned from him in the past few minutes, thinking fast and trying to mimic everything Deimos had done to him.

Deimos squirmed on his lap, rocking hard into him as their tongues slid together, breath hot and fast. Ethos was harder than he could ever remember being, had nothing to compare this to and knew only that it felt nothing like it did when he was alone; that this was the single most incredible thing to ever happen to him.

When Deimos shifted slightly on his lap, changing the angle so that he was rubbing directly up against Ethos' trapped cock, Ethos let out a strangled groan, unable to take the pressure anymore, his pulse present everywhere in his body, Deimos panting wet against his mouth.

They stared at one another for a moment, so close now that Ethos could see the flecks of color in Deimos' eyes. Ethos brushed his knuckles against the side of Deimos' face. He felt so precious in his arms and Ethos was careful to be gentle with him, close enough now to see the faint bruise marking his jaw.

He pressed a kiss to it and Deimos went still, pushing a hand in between them a beat later and fumbling with his own belt, opening his pants. Ethos squeezed his eyes shut tight when he heard the sound of the zipper being drawn, knew he wouldn't last more than a few seconds now that Deimos was undressing.

"Deimos," he whispered, letting out a hiss of breath when Deimos' hot palm found the bulge in his pants. "Deimos, I'm going to—"

Deimos hushed him and started on Ethos' pants then, working them open in a matter of seconds and pushing a hand down inside his underwear, gripping his hard cock and giving it a firm stroke, eliciting a choked noise from Ethos. The sensation was too overwhelming for him to show restraint, this being the first time he'd ever been touched like this by someone else.

When Deimos brought their bodies back together, rubbing their bare erections together and forcing one of Ethos' hands round to his ass, Ethos squeezed him tight, touched every part of him he could reach and sucked gently on his neck, desperate to drag the moment out but knowing it was fruitless.

Pleasure pooled low in his belly, so intense when it reached its climax that it was like every happy memory he'd ever had condensed; threading through the center of his body and out into his limbs.

He was too punch-drunk once it was over to even care about the wet mess between them, his or Deimos'; unable even to wipe the stupid grin off his face. With a satisfied little smile, Deimos leaned over him with two hands planted on either side of his head, slow and kittenish, and bent to lazily rub the tip of his nose against Ethos' cheek, along his jaw and then his neck, nuzzling him.

"Deimos?" Ethos whispered. Deimos stilled under his hands. "Do you think we could do this again sometimes? I-I mean, not _this_ this," he stammered, as that uncomfortable, unwelcome heat spread across his face again. "Not if you don't want to. I mean, just see each other. Spend time together. Do you want to?"

Deimos didn't answer him, not with words, just brought their mouths together again and delivered Ethos a bruising kiss, rough for someone who looked so sweet, and pulled back to sprawl out across Ethos' chest, tucking his head beneath Ethos' chin.

Ethos smiled to himself—couldn't help it—and put his arms around Deimos tight, wanting to keep him there all day if Deimos would let him.

**Author's Note:**

> **Translation:**
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>  _"Vy ne sdelali etogo ran'she? Ty tak sladko."_ = You've never done this before? You're so sweet.


End file.
